The Titanium Man
by madelinesticks
Summary: Steam Powered Giraffe fic. I wrote a little ficlet a few days ago. Then I wrote this 3000 words of fanfic based on that ficlet. I suppose you could say that this one is loosely inspired by The Tin Man of Oz, because it keeps reminding me of that. It's The Spine-centric. After everyone in the Manor is gone, life doesn't hold much for him anymore.


_She is here._ _  
Though the garden is overgrown now, though its first owners - my creator, how I long for him and his kin - are forgotten, though I myself am hidden and obscured by ivy vines, she is here.  
Her lips are the prettiest of cherry reds, more gorgeous even than the rosy hues of the blooms she is trying to bring to life before me. Her hair is thick and gorgeous, and it seems so good in its careful muss.  
She wishes to restore this garden to some imagined former glory: this is a very human want, and even in this state I find it endearing.  
Her eyes are bright and sparkling, full of cheer. Though they flit over the garden as she waters and weeds, they do not see me, for I am camouflaged and hidden.  
Only my photoreceptors are visible now, and truly their green glow in indistinguishable surrounded by my leafy prison.  
I am trapped, as I have been for what seems like a thousand years.  
She sways, breathes in and delights in the scents of the newly blooming roses.  
They do not compare to her own beauty.  
She begins to sing, and the sound is lovelier than any I have heard in my too many years.  
My lips and jaw have long been frozen, for those seeming millennia; I cannot join the melody, offer harmony or counterpoint.  
Though I cannot voice it, my heart sings back._

There were days when he wished he had not done it. But most of the days, most of them, he was glad. He did not have to do anything here, did not have to feign happiness or perform or try and maintain the Manor. Here, he was still.

He had buried Rabbit last. Rabbit had been the last to fade with a violent glitch and a few agonizing minutes of him sobbing oily tears as The Spine held him tightly. The Spine had buried him alongside The Jon, and alongside Hatchworth. The Walters were all buried, the Beciles were buried. Michael Reed was buried alongside a few other helpers, mechanics who'd died but had wished to be buried alongside those they'd devoted their lives to.

The Spine did not die. He waited for it, for a time. Hoped for the glitch or the accident that would take him, that would mean he was not alone.

He did not go outside the Manor's gates. He longed for humanity, but he just couldn't. They would expect him to sing and dance, as he had before. He could not do that without his brothers. How could he?

One day, one more day after dusting a counter in the old workshop that would never again be used, he stopped. He put on his nicest vest, and he'd walked outside. He walked down one of the paths, past the _experimental _apple tree and further.

It had been Annie's idea, in the beginning. Everyone had pitched in. The garden was walled on the far side, and it had rows of flowers, pots and a rather impressive giraffe sculpture Jon had made one Thursday at 3 in the morning. The Spine felt a twinge of pain in his chest as he stared at it for a moment.

He walked into the garden and sat on the bench. He stared at all of the flowers, which were pretty even in their slightly overgrown, untaken care of state. He remained in place. Days passed. Nights passed. He did not move an inch, not to get water, nor oil. Soon enough, he was not truly running: only his Blue Matter core continued. He was the most efficient, with his upgrades, he had been for a long time.

The Blue Matter's reactions were unimpaired by the stop of his steam-run systems. Now, only his photoreceptors held a dull glow. His other parts could not move – he had no steam to run on, no oil to power his boiler.

He did not know how long he had been there. Long ago he'd lost track of the days, lost count of how many hours passed.

Sometimes it rained. Once, he'd hated that. Detested the feeling of the water on titanium skin, disliked the scent it left in the air and how it got all of his clothes dirty. Now, he could almost understand how The Jon had been so enamoured with it. He felt fresh when it rained, even though he was far from new. He felt good, and whole, and everything seemed okay.

But then it stopped raining and he felt empty again.

It was not raining on the day she first came. It was a bright, sunny day. He must have been still for a thousand years now, surely, because his clothes were worn away and all the flowers were dead, though the ivy growing over him hid his nakedness and no one ever saw the flowers anymore.

She was pretty. She looked around in wonder, in complete awe, and The Spine would have smiled were he able. This was the first human he had seen in so many years, and oh, how beautiful she was. She did not notice him.

The Spine was not surprised at that – the ivy and other climbing plants had virtually covered him completely, the bench he'd once sat on having long since collapsed. She explored the garden though, and seemed positively delighted at the giraffe sculpture that still stood, even though it was covered over with moss.

The Spine felt a sudden burst of pride at the bright grin on her face. The Jon would have liked that, he would have loved someone being so excited over his art. The Spine's photoreceptors followed her as she looked around, looking so incredibly awed by this broken, overgrown garden.

He was sad when she left. But then, how could he expect her to stay?

He ran over songs in his head. He'd run over every one he'd ever heard or performed a thousand times, but all the same. The Suspender Man. Chords, lyrics. He could have written new ones. He had ideas, sometimes, ideas for new songs. Snippets of words or melodies. He never had the heart to try and think them through, always violently pushed such thoughts from his mind.

It would be useless to do that now. He had no one left to perform with, and The Spine never had liked to perform alone.

He slept. Pappy had used to laugh when he called it sleep. Had given little chuckles and nodded. He'd found it somehow sweet, The Spine's want for humanity. He had at first, anyway, but later in life he didn't find it adorable anymore. Pappy had never realised that The Spine noticed the occasional sad looks and unhappy gazes from his creator. He never mentioned them – The Spine did not feel comfortable in being pitied.

When The Spine awoke, she was there again. The joy he felt was ridiculous.

She pottered around the garden, thick gloves protecting her fingers as she pulled at thorny weeds in the old beds. He watched her with no small amount of fascination, intrigued at both her skill and her intent expression.

She returned day after day. Slowly, the beds were restored, new flower seeds were buried in the earth and began to shoot. She cleared the moss from Jon's sculpture, carefully replaced broken pots with new ones.

One day, she approached him. She crouched before him and reached forwards. She was careful in removing the ivy, in pulling it aside. He appreciated it. When his face was bared, she stared at it with wide eyes. He studied her face, and she gasped when she saw his photoreceptors move.

"You're alive." She whispered, gently stroking a thumb over his cheek. "You're a Walter robot, aren't you? You're all- you're all supposed to be dead." She seemed completely entranced, and yet she knew his name. Walter. Was Walter Robotics ever that popular? So well known? But then, she was on the property. An enthusiast of forgotten things, perhaps.

"You can't move." She murmured, biting her lip. She was ever so pretty up close, her lips the loveliest of cherry reds, her eyes bright and flecked with green. She began to carefully pull more of the ivy away, revealing the tarnished metal beneath. Scraps of black clung to his hips and his shoulders, the only remnants of the clothes – _his best vest_ – that he'd worn that day so long ago.

Soon enough, all the ivy was removed, and he was naked and unhidden for the first time in centuries. She stared at his chest, taking in the panelling of his arms and his legs, his neck.

"Amazing." She whispered. "I- I'll be right back, okay? I'll get a rag and some water and I'll clean off all the mud. And I'll find out how to make you work!" She ran from the garden, as fast as she could. He felt oddly exposed, but he awaited her patiently.

She was not right back: she returned the next day. All the same, he did not feel betrayed. After all, he was lucky that she paid him any heed at all.

She carefully pried open his jaw, slipped a can to his mouth. The oil slid down his throat with ease, and he felt a small spark. Water, next, and soon enough he could feel the Blue Matter spark his boiler into life.

It took him a little time, but then he spat out a puff of steam, oil clinging to his lips. She beamed at him. After a small while, he tried to shift. It hurt.

He gave a hiss of steam as he forced his limbs to move, feeling them resist the movement. Once he was on his feet, he shifted rapidly, curling and uncurling his fingers, moving his arms and legs. His back hurt, but that wasn't new.

He needed a tune-up, certainly.

"Wow." She mumbled, staring up at him. She was very short, comparatively. He smiled at her, and she grinned right back. "Can you talk?" He tilted his head slightly to the side, attempting a hum, and then he shook his head. His voicebox was dead, and would no longer work. She looked a little sad. "Uh, let me- let me help you." She leaned down, dipping the rag in a bucket of soapy water.

She cleared away mud, moss and dirt, cleared away excrement from birds that'd flown above him and everything else. Then, she polished the titanium, until his silvery skin was shining in the light. As she did so, she talked. Told him her name, how she'd always known of the Walters and their robots as a child. A dozen things. But she knew his name. Finally, she stepped back, giving a tiny nod.

"Perfect." She said softly. He smiled.

"Uh, if we go up to the Manor- um." She swallowed. "One of my great-something grandfathers, many years ago, he bought the house. Mostly, everything is there. He wanted to make it a museum, but he never really got around to it."

He stared at her. Museum? Why?

"Your- your room, and the Hall of Wires, they're mostly as is. Not powered up, but they're there."

What was the point in the Hall of Wires? Even QWERTY was long-since dead. All the same, he inclined his head, and allowed her to lead him. Walking was still uncomfortable, but he could fix himself up.

His room was indeed the same as he'd left it. Furniture properly arranged, all in a chocolate and cream colour scheme. Even the sheets, black and satin and comfortable, were on the bed, though everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.

"Clothes are preserved." She said softly. "Still in their places, but we put in regular moth balls and stuff." He nodded, and quickly removed trousers and a shirt. It was obscene, for him to be nude in this way, he supposed. But then, she never commented on it.

It felt strange to be dressed. He tightened his tie, pulling on a vest and shoes. She stared at him with plain interest. "You look even more impressive when dressed." He grinned, giving a small bow and an inclination of his head. It was the best way to receive the compliment without verbal thanks, he thought. He removed a spare wig and a fedora, putting them both carefully on his head.

She bit her lip, seemingly nervous for a moment. "There's- there was makeup. In the wardrobe." He froze, slowly turning to face her. "We wondered why. Was it- is it- yours?"

Slowly, he gave a nod. "You pretended to be human?" He nodded again. "The other robots didn't do that, huh?" A shake. She looked sad.

"You can come with me, you know. My cottage, it isn't that far away. I know- I know it's not nice to be alone. Especially not in a big house like this." He stared at her momentarily, but then he nodded again.

He tried very hard to be helpful, in her household. He washed dishes, he cleaned and dusted. He moved heavy furniture and painted walls and just assisted in any way he could. He organised her books – with permission – as it was something she'd been intending to do for a very long time.

He cooked for her, sometimes. And yes, he was an excellent cook. Otherwise, she noticed that he was very careful with her: the automaton treated her as though she was a porcelain doll, as though he was terrified she would break.

When he was not doing something for her, he settled out of the way, in an armchair. He didn't paint or anything – and she could tell from the many canvases she'd found, all marked in the corner with a cursive "The Spine", that he was quite the artist. But when she offered to buy him art supplies, he refused. He did not read.

One day, she offered him a guitar. He just shook his head.

He began to go with her, when she worked on the Manor's gardens. He was helpful in restoring them to their former glory, eager to assist her, help her and make her happy in any way he could. But then one day, she turned her back and he was not there. She made out his form leaving the garden and, curious, she followed.

He trekked across the grounds, not looking around him, uninterested in the pleasant breeze and the pretty bloom of flowers. He pushed open and old gate and continued down the hill, down a pebbled path.

She stopped still as he moved off the path. A graveyard. The old Walter graveyard. She'd never been to this part of the grounds before, and could not help but stare.

The graves were neat and orderly, each headstone seeming professionally carved. She thought of the stone giraffe in the flower garden, of other sculptures she'd seen, and wondered if the Walter robots had made them all. The main graves were in front of a pond. Two of them were close together, whereas others were clustered around.

In the centre of them all was a metal sculpture that seemed to serve as a bench. The Spine was slowly walking around, looking at each of the stones. There were many of them. She moved to some to the side, four graves clustered together.

She stared at them. The Jon's was first, a little bird engraved on the stone. Hatchworth's had a sandwich, Upgrade's a small crown, and Rabbit's had his namesake with a carrot in its mouth. She felt tears come to her eyes as she recognised The Spine's art style. She looked to the automaton, but he did not notice her.

The Spine had settled on the sculpture, staring at the two graves before him. She didn't go to him immediately. She looked around, taking in all the other headstones with an unhappy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Every single one had a carved image of something or other, and some had a saying or quote on along with names and dates.

Everyone had their own headstone, it seemed, even a smaller grave that merely had "QWERTY" hewn into the stone. The Spine must have done every one of them. He must have been alone. She finally made her way to him, and stared at the two graves before him.

Colonel Peter Alexander Walter. Iris must have been his wife. She noticed black streaks of oil on his cheeks as he stared at the headstones, and wordlessly, she settled next to him. She took his hand in hers and just held it tightly.

She thought about how obvious it was that he felt emotion, wondering how awful it must have been to have buried all of those people, his family, to have made each of them headstones. She'd never asked him why he'd let himself go still and unable to move, but now she knew the answer.

"It's- it's okay." She whispered. "You're not alone anymore."

His hand tightened around hers as he stared at her with some new recognition, and she felt new tears sting at her own eyes. "I'm sorry." She said as she tried not to sob. "I'm so sorry." She saw his lips move, and even though she did not hear the words, she could read them on the black rubber.

"_I'm sorry too_."


End file.
